This latest post stems from a couple of things I've read recently. Please read this completely before you continue:"Can You Call Me Back Later?"
by Michael Brendan Dougherty
of Surfeited with Dainties
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Cliche is a poison to the witness of the church. I suppose that some cliche is inevitable in any group. And further, there is some comfort in the familiar, in words that have roots, that have a heritage, that are not some modish novelty. But when the words of a rich heritage are hollowed out by time and careless overuse, they degrade into cliche. They are all form, shape, and contour, but no substance. Divorced from the truth they once bore, our words evoke little more than sweet memories. Meanwhile, the advertisements beckon, the magazines expose, and the televisions screech. The brothers and sisters of our abused generation, enticed by the offer of the 'good life' attained by unending consumption (of clothes, degrees, furniture, sexual partners, beer), cling to the hope of tomorrow's new thing, or, if hope is lost, sink into despair. Most probably suffer from a mix of both--the vague uneasiness that a deeper richness is attainable, but the uncertainty of where to look. Perhaps if only they swallow hard, clench their teeth, and look beyond the horizon for sunrise, this present gloomy fog will pass. Only a bright light can pierce the darkness. If the best we can offer is a well-rehearsed line, they won't listen. They've seen the ads. They know a slick slogan when they hear one.
I told him that “the Lord put this on my heart for him.” He seemed to take that
to heart, even though I was trying to relieve my conscience of him.
Christ told us about letting light shine before others, and the perils of keeping it hidden. Don't our hackneyed tokens of love, our half-hearted consolations, re-entomb the risen Christ? Don't we all light lamps and hide them under bowls? "Look at the great deeds I've done for you, Lord! I've saved the oil! I've trimmed the wick!" But we let the light fade and slowly extinguish. The sweet smoke may please us like the burnt offerings of old, but the cooling embers' glow leaves us all in darkness. We are the new Pharisees, sacrificing our friends at the altar, and asking of God if it has appeased his anger with us. Has the conscience been cleared? The tongue drips love, but the heart is still.
I barely had enough money to feed myself. How could I protect him from abuse at
work or home?
Is that it? Are we really that different than so many people we are trying to help? Do we, too, with gritted teeth and clenched jaw, wait out the same storm they do? When we see the tension and pain in others' lives, are we plagued by the tension of our own doubt, fear, and callousness? When we peer at another's creased face, does it, like a mirror, reflect our own weakness and inabilities? A tongue that knows not what to say? Eyes that want to look away?
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At this point, take a break from my post here. The two blogs I have been keeping up with during my Lenten otherwise-fast from the "blogosphere" are David Kuo's J-Walking, and Anne Jackson's Flowerdust, who both have, with about a dozen other bloggers, travelled to Uganda to work for a few weeks in the slums. Read David's first encounter here before continuing:
by David Kuo
of J-Walking
...I watched her and watched her... left right there... alone on her dirty
blanket, surrounded by circumstances that aspire to be called squalid...
One may throw up his hands in futility. What good is caring when so little can be done? Why bare one's soul, only to have it pierced by the tatters of anothers' wounds--wounds that we have no idea how to heal? Is heartache the price of love? Perhaps it is more than that--that such heartache is not the tradeoff, but the definition of love--brothers of brokenness.
Still, we recoil. Is it narcissism? The desire that, if one is healed, we would be the healer? That we would cast out the spirits? And if we cannot, don't we leave the recalcitrant demoniacs, for fear that we would have to face our own need and brokenness too? "My name is Legion, for we are many." Do we avert our eyes from those of Legion, because he may tell us he possesses us, too? The creased faces of our friends may mirror not only our hearts, but our souls.
Perhaps this is why the Lord tells us we must die to ourselves through His grace. Nothing else can break through our own brokenness and lead us to true love. "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." We may aspire to that, but it is vanity. Christ is the healer, the one who died in our place. We can only offer so much less:
Dearest friend, I cannot fix your brokenness. I can not bind the wounds.
But I cannot do nothing.
I cannot die for you, but at least I will die with you, for I cannot live knowing the dead sleep alone.
When Christ told us to let our light shine, he did not command us to light the whole world, but merely to light the house. That's the best we can do. And perhaps, together, room by room, house by house, we can build that city on the hill, rising above the slums and squalor, a beacon in the night. Perhaps we can remind others--and ourselves--that though the sky is darkened and the storm clouds loom, the Morningstar will soon return, ushering in the day that never ends, when all wounds are healed.
Two men huddle underneath the lights in an empty parking lot. The snow swirls along the ground, sparkling a pale, sickly green underneath the halogen lights, making the night seem even colder than normal. The two men spoke briefly, with whispering wind muffling their words.
The taller man waved goodbye, and started for his car, and the other stepped back to collecting his grocery carts. It was cold out, and the tall man was busy with more than enough troubles, but something stopped him after a step or two. The wind carried the smoke of freshly-split pine. He looked across the street, where a small house was filled with the glow of firelight. He looked back at the man with the shopping carts.
"Oh man, bet that would be nice!"
The other looked up from his carts, and flashed a brief grin.
"Yeah." His breath wafted in the air, like something burned in his chest. He stared a moment, and looked back at his cart. "Well, I'll be seein ya."
"Yeah. Bye, John."
